


And I Swear I Will Be True

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe to a different Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inverse of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/693454/">A Life I Might've Known</a>.</p><p>Enjolras deals with the aftermath of a traumatic injury to Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Swear I Will Be True

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Life I Might've Known](https://archiveofourown.org/works/693454) by [kjack89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89). 



> A nonny on [tumblr](kjack89.tumblr.com) asked for my take on what would happen if Enjolras and Grantaire's places were reversed in A Life I Might've Known, and I couldn't resist writing it.
> 
> Reading [A Life I Might've Known](http://archiveofourown.org/works/693454/) first is recommended, but you'll understand everything that happens here without doing so.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: the only thing I own are my typos.

He felt a head full of curls nuzzle in under his chin and his mouth lifted in an automatic smile, pulling the man close enough to kiss him on his forehead, all without needing to open his eyes.

Enjolras didn’t want to open his eyes.

With his eyes closed, he could imagine that they were at home, in bed, waking up on a lazy Saturday when Enjolras would have shut his alarm off the night before with the express intent of sleeping in for once. He could imagine that Grantaire had gotten up to make coffee, or maybe even make him breakfast, because Grantaire loved to make him breakfast and always did on the days when Enjolras was at home long enough to eat it. He could imagine Grantaire coming back in the room to wake him, to tell him that breakfast was ready, crawling up on the bed next to him, draping himself over him, and tucking his head under Enjolras’s chin until his curls tickled Enjolras’s nose enough that he awoke.

He could imagine slow, open-mouthed kisses as Grantaire laughed about his morning breath, could imagine, encircling Grantaire’s wrist with his hand to keep him on the bed, could imagine whispering, “We can always heat the food up in the microwave,” as he turned Grantaire over onto his back and pressed kisses down the column of his neck.

With his eyes closed, he could see Grantaire’s laughing blue eyes, so quick and full of life and joy and hope and always that hint of reverence when looking at Enjolras. He could see Grantaire’s lips curved in that half-grin that he saved just for Enjolras. He could see that devilish look on his face as he picked apart Enjolras’s argument and came up with his own to tear Enjolras’s to pieces, and laugh all while doing it.

If he opened his eyes, it would all be gone.

Instead of lost in memories of Grantaire in his bed in their apartment, he would be flooded with memories of Grantaire in the hospital, in a coma, of Grantaire with bandages around his head and a beeping monitor as the only thing in the room that showed any signs of life. Instead of memories of Grantaire laughing and kissing him, he would remember Grantaire almost cowering in his hospital bed because he had no idea who Enjolras was.

Instead of memories of Grantaire at his best, so smart and eloquent and funny and  _wonderful_ , he would remember the doctor telling him in hushed tones that Grantaire had severe cognitive impairment, that Grantaire would never progress past acting and thinking like a four-year-old, that it was a _miracle_  that Grantaire had retained as much as he had.

If he opened his eyes, he would see not the walls of their bedroom, haphazardly painted by Grantaire and abandoned halfway through because Enjolras had to have him then and there and the rest of the paint had wound up on them instead of the walls. Instead, he would see the cold, taupe walls of the institution that was Grantaire’s home (and even the brightly colored posters Enjolras had hung on the walls did little to ease the feel of the institution). It would not be their bed in which he awoke but Grantaire’s bed, far too close to a hospital bed for anyone’s comfort. Instead of Grantaire’s art supplies everywhere, he would open his eyes to see toys scattered across the floor.

And instead of seeing Grantaire look at him with those intelligent, sexy, amazing blue eyes, he would see Grantaire look at him with eyes too wide, too innocent, too trusting.

He opened his nonetheless, brushing another kiss against Grantaire’s forehead. “You fell asleep,” Grantaire told him accusingly, in his childlike voice.

"I did, didn’t I?" Enjolras said mildly, groaning as he sat up. "I’m very sorry to have fallen asleep on you."

And he was - his time with Grantaire was precious, and he knew that - but he hadn’t slept well the past few nights, spending most of his time at Combeferre’s arguing about the ramifications of the Affordable Care Act on gay and lesbian couples with a partner in long-term care.

That had become Enjolras’s life since Grantaire’s accident; whereas before he had concerned himself with fighting injustice writ large, taking a job with a prestigious law firm in the hopes of doing something good, now his focus was much narrower.

Now he fought for Grantaire as best he could, knowing it would never bring him back but knowing that it was all he had left to fight for. When the hospital tried to deny him on the basis that they were not married, Enjolras had fought, and had won, the right to see him, to treat him as if he was his husband (and they were, in all but name, in all but a piece of paper that Grantaire could no longer legally consent to). When his law firm wouldn’t give him enough time off to see Grantaire, he quit. And he had spent every moment since fighting on behalf of others like Grantaire, fighting for improved insurance coverage for traumatic brain injury, fighting for the rights of gay and lesbian partners, fighting to give himself something to live for instead of sitting in his empty apartment and missing the man he would never again know.

He hadn’t wanted to put Grantaire in an institution, had wanted to take him home from the hospital with him, back to their apartment, but Combeferre had put his foot down. “You can’t take care of a child, Enjolras,” he said in a tired, defeated voice.

Enjolras had given him a cold glare. “Maybe not, but this isn’t a child. This is  _Grantaire_.”

"Exactly." Combeferre matched Enjolras’s glare with one of his own. "And you can’t even take care of yourself."

It was a cold statement, a harsh statement, and an unfortunately true assessment. While Enjolras had gotten better since Grantaire had moved in, without Grantaire to remind him, he was liable to forget to eat, let alone to feed Grantaire.

So Courfeyrac had found a place, an institution that specialized in traumatic brain injury and now, every moment of Enjolras’s free time was spent here, with Grantaire, whether they spent it reading, watching Disney DVDs, or coloring together.

Speaking of, Grantaire slid off Enjolras’s lap and tottered across the room, bending to snatch a piece of paper off the table. “I drew you something,” he announced, grinning at Enjolras as he brought it over to him. “Lookit, lookit!”

He thrust the picture at Enjolras as he told him, “It’s you, see?”

Enjolras stared down at the picture and had to blink back the tears that welled in his eyes. The drawing was like any child’s, scribbled with crayon, Enjolras depicted as a stick figure, more or less, with a halo of yellow curls, but Enjolras could not help but remember the way Grantaire used to draw him, used to paint him, the days when Enjolras would lounge on their bed (naked more often than not) as Grantaire whistled off-key, moving his paintbrush in firm, easy strokes against the canvas.

He treasured those paintings now, just as he treasured every picture that Grantaire drew him, the crayon drawings afforded equal prominence in their - in  _his_  - apartment.

“It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire honestly, when he managed to clear his throat enough to form words. “Just like you.”

He pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s temple and Grantaire giggled, pulling away from him. “Wanna watch a movie!” he told Enjolras, sitting down on the floor and looking up at him expectantly.

Enjolras checked his watch and groaned. His little nap had eaten into his time with Grantaire for the day, and he needed to leave now to get any semblance of sleep before the day tomorrow. “I can’t, Grantaire,” he said softly. “I have to go now.”

He hated leaving Grantaire here.

He hated walking away from him.

And every time he left, every time Grantaire’s lower lip started quivering even as he tried to hide his tears from Enjolras, it broke another piece of Enjolras’s heart.

Even now he had to bite back a sob as he watched Grantaire’s eyes fill with tears. “Don’ want you to go,” Grantaire told him, crawling over to latch onto Enjolras’s leg. “Want you to stay.”

Kneeling down so that he was eye to eye with Grantaire, he told him gently, “I know, Taire. I know you want me to stay. But I can’t stay tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, though. You know that. And I’ll be able to stay all weekend, ok? And we can watch as many movies as you want.” He brushed a dark curl from Grantaire’s face, brushing his fingers across his cheekbone. “I promise, I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.”

And he did. More than he had loved anything. In the most bizarre way, it had taken Grantaire’s accident to make him realize his life’s passion, to make him realize how much he loved Grantaire.

He couldn’t be thankful for that.

He couldn’t  _not_  be thankful for that.

And in some absurd way, in the irony of ironies, it had taken this to make Enjolras into the man that Grantaire had always quietly wanted him to be (always quietly needed him to be). He found himself leaving work early, going into work late, taking days off just so he could spend more time with Grantaire.

It was everything Grantaire had ever wanted of him. And he would never even know that Enjolras had finally managed to do it, all for him.

There was so much Enjolras wanted to say to him, to tell him, and to hear him say back, but he knew that it didn’t matter. This, here, with Grantaire’s arms thrown around his neck, with him murmuring, “I love you, Enj,” this was enough. This would always be enough.

And in the meantime, he would take the drawing home and hang it on whatever open wall space he had left, just like he always did.

And he would be back again tomorrow, just like he always was.

Because Grantaire needed him. And it had taken Enjolras coming to terms with that to realize just how much he had always needed Grantaire, too.


End file.
